So Far Away
by Crimson Bttrfly
Summary: Injured deep in the heart of Rukongai, Byakuya Kuchiki meets his future wife.


**Author's Note:** I claim no legal or proprietary right to Bleach.

* * *

**So Far Away**

He is a fractured soul when they meet. Pieces of him are scattered across the graves of those he has loved and those that he has lost. He is blood, cut to the quick. He is skin, slit and weeping. He is darkness—the moonbeams collect in the beads of sweat of his brow. He is spluttering. Red rivulets trickle from his lips, down his chin, and pool in the dip of his neck.

His hands are tense, gripping the corner of the nearby wall. It is constructed from wood, straw and mud. It does not support him. His bones cannot support him. His muscle fibers each snap loose, free. He falls to a bended knee, bloodied and beastly.

Darkness cloaks him. It eases his mind, numbs his body, and sings a sweet reedy lullaby in his ears. Darkness imbues him. Darkness becomes him. Minutes then hours then days pass and he is nothing but the darkness. He sees nothing but the black.

When his eyes flutter open and when the tenebrous shadows recede, he sees only shades of blue. Pale and tranquil. It covers the strange room. It paints him and the coarse woolen blanket draped over his battered body.

"Don't move," she says.

He jolts back as if her words are electric, shocking him. His nerves click in his head and buzz under his skin. He sparks, all twinges and twitches. His heart starts and stops, following no particular rhythm, as he searches the blue for her.

She is so still, kneeled at his bedside. Her movements are so graceful, so small. Had she not spoken, he would not have noticed her and her delicate fluttering movements. She is like a Karner blue butterfly beating its wings in the early shades of twilight—undetectable.

Finding her and keeping her in his view, he shifts, startled. Who is she? He does not know her. She is a diminutive woman, all fine lines and gentle curves. Her eyes are large, child-like, but they gleam sadly. The moonbeams bounce off her milky skin and dance in her raven locks. The ragged ends of her hair kiss her shoulders.

She is beautiful, he decides.

"It isn't a threat," she says softly, misreading his gaze.

He doesn't fear her. Her calmness betrays her gentle demeanor. Her eyes tell him stories—tales of pain, of need, of longing, but _not_ of violence. No. She does not possess a cruel intent or a wicked heart.

"You'll pop a stitch," she continues, bowing her head as she dampens a clean white rag into a basin of water.

The water is hot. White wisps rise up like little playful fingers. She teases one of the wisps, extending its trail longer than it would have otherwise reached. A small smile flickers against her lips, and her gaze skims the basin before rising to meet his. Their eyes lock, and silence, sweet and blissful, fills their ears and eases their minds.

Tenderly, she places the cloth against his chest.

He follows her movements, realizing for the first time that she has freed him from his uniform. He is dressed in scratchy casual wear. His kimono is opened wide. One of his arms is free from the sleeves. He wonders how she manages as he studies her face.

She is thin. The hollows of her cheeks are deep. The darkness lining her large eyes speak of famine, and her parched lips betray the drought. She craves. She hungers. She is withering like a flower, cut and put out on display.

"Rest," she says. Soothingly, she washes him. Soap, rich and fragrant, lathers his skin as she washes the blood and the dirt from his flesh. "I mean no harm."

He stares at her. He knows she means him no harm. He has never assumed she had.

Dipping the cloth into the basin, she wrings the blood and dirt away. She clenches the material in her hands before moving the bowl to the side. She dries him with a fresh towel. "You must be hungry," she observes, large blue eyes flickering up.

He catches her gaze. It is fleeting. She is careful to guard the secrets languishing in her depths. "You are very strong," she says, dabbing the slab of muscle cupping his shoulder. There is no lust in her voice. It is just an innocent remark. Harmless.

Before he can speak—before he can even reach for the words—she rocks back on her heels, and she stands. Her frame is painfully tiny, shrunken by the deep poverty that she endures. She is scarcely 140 centimeters, and he imagines that, sopping wet, she weighs at _most _24 kilograms.

She prepares a small meal of rice and fish, and she pours him a cup of water. She wraps herself in a brown blanket before handing him his food. It is not much, but it is all she has, and he accepts out of gratitude and because he is famished.

Small mouthfuls. He chews, surprised that he can adequately wield his eating utensils. After a few more bites of rice and sips of water, he realizes that she is not eating. She keeps her gaze low, and she sits motionless and tense. Her body is perfectly rigid as if she is trying her best to fight back her own hunger.

He stares deep into the bowl of rice. A few grains remain. He has been so greedy, so thoughtless. He has not considered that this was everything for her. All of her food. The thought was so foreign to him. Starvation does not blight his land. No one _needed_ for anything substantial there. Food and water were in abundance.

Through her heavy ebon eyelashes, she watches him. "Is it not to your liking?" She has misinterpreted his look.

"It is good," he lies. He is not ungrateful. In fact, he feels a considerable debt to her.

She lifts her head. Her brows furrow. She does not believe him, he can tell. She senses his mendacity, strips him of his propriety. She bows forward. "Thank you," she says.

Briefly, he wonders for what, exactly, she gives her gratitude_. His lie?_ She doesn't believe his complement, he is convinced. _Or, does she thank him for sparing her feelings?_

"Do you feel hunger?" he asks, already having guessed her answer.

She meets his eyes. "Yes," she murmurs.

"Thirst?"

"Yes," she responds softly against the darkness.

He knows because he can sense her. Everything in Inuzuri _feels_ static, peaceful. The spirits have no power, no weight. She does, though. He can feel her spark against him, weak from deprivation, but he has ignited it with his own spiritual pressure.

"How long?" he asks, feeling quite comfortable speaking to her in half-sentences.

She deepens her stare, and his breath catches in his throat. There is an intimacy in her look that he has never experienced as she searches his eyes. He does not break away. He is fascinated, wondering if she can unearth him with her sharp probing gaze. Silently, he hopes she can. No one else has even tried in many long decades.

"Forever," she says with a world-weariness that only souls who have seen a turn of a century can manage convincingly. She closes her eyes, and he wonders if she is satisfied with whatever secrets she found locked in his stare.

She trembles. "Please, rest," she says, pulling the blanket tightly around her.

"Why?" he finally asks the question that has been burning deep in the back of his mind. _Why did she do this_?

She inhales a deep breath. The shadows scatter across her visage, hooding her eyes and veiling her. "I saw you in the alleyway, right before you fell." Words ghosted across her face, but they never formed on her lips. "I don't know who or what is pursuing you," she says, inclining her head. She has anticipated some of his unaired subsidiary questions. "Frankly, I don't care. There isn't a lot of good here," she murmurs.

Wordless, he studies her as she sets a bed for herself. The shadows and light paint her in such lovely shades. She is truly a marvelous study of movement. She is all elegant flickering lines as she draws a thin sheet over her, and she sleeps.

When morning comes, she demurely shrugs on a dingy pink yukata. No shoes. No adornments. She pauses to examine him, shocked that he returns her stare. "Apologies," she says, mid-bow, "good morning."

It dawns on him that he has not shared his name and that she has not shared hers. "Good morning," he responds. "What do I call you?"

A pink blush tints her cheeks. "Hisana," she bows deeply. Straightening, she blinks, waiting for him to reciprocate, which he does.

"Byakuya," he states simply, leaving off his surname. Such things hold no weight so far away from Seireitei. No one knows or cares who he is and what his bloodline entails.

She smiles. It is brief, but it is beautiful. "I will clean your uniform this afternoon. Swords," she says, instinctively turning to a large trunk that is bolted to the floor and padlocked, "are trouble in Inuzuri. I placed yours in the trunk along with your badge and coin purse." Her eyes flick up, and she is lost in a whirlwind of thoughts for a moment. "Oh," she murmurs to herself. In a flash, her hands are fussing at a gold chain clasped around her neck. She unhooks it with some ado, "This is for you."

She crosses the floor and drops to her knees in front of him. Leaning in, she is almost pressed against his chest. He indulges, inhaling a breath. She smells of damp flowers and warm earth. "This key is yours, to open the trunk," she whispers. Her breath, balmy and moist, skims his ear.

"What about your valuables?" he asks. She doesn't know that he is wealthy. She doesn't know him or his motives. She is unaware that he owns frivolous trinkets that could buy a million trunks, a million swords, and a million filled coin purses. She knows nothing of his power, his prestige, his status, or his heritage, and he finds this thought exciting. She sees him as an equal, perhaps.

"I own nothing of import," she retorts. Pulling away, a small impish gleam brightens her eyes that he would think otherwise. "The trunks come standard in these rooms," she answers the question forming in his head.

She bows her head and turns on her heel. Before stepping over the threshold, she pauses and angles her head just enough to glimpse him. "Rest," she cautions.

"Where are you going?" he asks, surprising himself that he cares.

"To work."

He rests, rousing only when he hears the clacking of wood being drawn against itself. His eyelids peel back to find her tying small bundles of fabric. He closes his eyes, and, when he reopens them, she is gone.

It is late when she returns. Her hair is damp and she smells like smoke and grass. She sits at a small chipped table, and she begins to sew his uniform in the dim glow of candlelight. He watches in silence, wondering if she senses him. If she does, she makes no indication. Her fingers are deft, weaving the needle in and out of the fabric. Satisfied, she holds the garment up to the light.

He leans back and examines it. His kosode looks brand new. No signs of violence tears the black material. His shitagi, however, frustrates her. To her credit, she managed to remove most if not all of the bloodstains. Its fabric, however, is too thin and too expensive for the materials she has. When she finishes, it looks pristine.

"Where did you learn this skill?" he asks. His voice, a low rumble, rolls over her, and she starts.

A nervous smile thins her lips, but her sullen gaze darkens her look. She shakes her head and shrugs her shoulders. "I have always known," she replies softly.

His gaze intensifies as she turns away.

"I think it would be best for you to wait before wearing your uniform," she offers gently.

His brows raise, and he issues her a wordless inquiry from across the room.

She smiles dimly at their strange shorthand. "Your wounds, they still seep. Better to dirty the inexpensive garments."

He sits up, adjusting his body against the lumpy futon. What he would give to be back at his manor, slumbering in his own bed. The company was not as agreeable at his estate, but his muscles ached less after a restful night in a _comfortable_ bed. He prickles at the last thought—the tacit admission that he finds her, a peasant, agreeable in nature. He scrutinizes the idea, turns it over in his head.

He finds nothing wrong with it.

Nothing wrong at all.

Hearing the door screech back, he lifts his head. She is across the room, standing at the door. A look stops her at the threshold. "Tonight is castoff night," she says, her back toward him. Night pools in her loose robes. Starlight outlines her contours in silver. "The restaurant downstairs casts away the stale but edible foods. It tastes wretched, but it slakes the hunger."

Before he can say a word, she is gone, lost to the tranquil blues and lavenders of dusk.

She returns in due time. A basket of old and burned rolls, old rice, dried fruit, and dumplings enters the room before she does. Her small arms are wiry. She possesses more strength than he initially thinks possible for her stature.

A rustling of sheets against his robes calls attention to his futile attempt at pulling himself up from the bed. She bounds across the floor to make sure he is well. "Byakuya," she speaks his name against inky locks of his hair as she braces him. "It's alright," she assures him, pulling the collar of his robes back with the crook of her thumb. She examines his wounds, careful to ensure that he has not ripped out a stitch. Blood oozes around one of the sutures, and she guides him down into supine position. Swiftly, she applies antiseptic to his injury, cleaning it. She inspects the stitch to find it holds strong. "Are you well?" she asks, concern catching in her eyes.

He hasn't seen concern for him reflected in someone else's face in _years_. Not since his father passed. No one sees him as mortal or feeling. He is treated icily, regarded with equal measures of fear and admiration. She does not fear him, however. She does not admire him either. No, she is _concerned_ for his well-being. She is _worried_ for his safety, his health.

He stares into her face, watching the shadows shift and scatter across her pale milky skin. She had no idea who he was.

She slides away from him. Her warmth and tender touches recede from his body, and his muscles tense in retaliation. He doesn't know why his muscles knot at her proximity_. A strange malfunction?_ he wonders.

She retreats back to the table, where she prepares him a dish of stale but filling food. She partakes in the "feast." She eats politely enough. Small mouthfuls and careful chews. "You are a Shinigami," she notes, conversationally. It is the first time in two days that she regards him in a casual shade.

He takes a small bite of food, but he meets her gaze.

She sips water from her cup. "That sounds," she pauses, trying to find the appropriate word. She comes up empty at the last minute.

"It is," he responds, pretending that she has finished her thought.

She smiles into her cup. "What was pursuing you?"

"You don't care," he echoes her words from the night prior.

She nods solemnly. "I said that." No point in arguing.

He swallows, not wishing to darken her mood. "Men," he says softly.

Her head tilts to the side when she is in thought. He finds it endearing. "Who?" she asks, "I may know them."

"You would give up the name of your neighbors?" his words come off sounding more chastising than he intends. He wishes he could have shaved the edge off his tone.

She perks up, likely needled. "I don't think anyone in Inuzuri clings to such naïve notions," she says, staring up into the thatched ceiling.

"Naïve notions of friendship?" he inquires, unsure if he has understood her.

"No," she shakes her head, "of brotherly love, generally."

"I see." Her words does not surprise him. Not in the least.

"You do in Seireitei," she observes astutely.

In a single stroke, she pierces him. Her voice crests over him unexpectedly. Briefly, he wonders if she knows who he is, if she has discerned his identity. And, if she had? What would that mean? Was she just naturally impertinent? Was she playing a long con?

"Shinigami reside in Seireitei, correct?" she clarifies, reading his expression well.

Byakuya blinks away the deluge of conspiracies flying through his head. "Yes," he answers simply.

She bows her head. Her gaze sinks to the stale food, and she sets the bowl aside. A sudden wave of melancholia transforms her. She hides it well, but he can see the glimmer of repressed tears in her eyes. She swallows hard. She swallows whatever secret had bubbled up from the deep crevices of her brain.

"Have you lived here always?" he asks, feeling a pang of guilt pelt his heart.

She nods. A distant look smoothes the lines of her face until she becomes inscrutable even to his keen eyes. There is something she is keeping locked deep inside her. What? He is unsure.

She leaves him again, slides away into the night when she thinks he is sleeping. He isn't sleeping, and he watches as the darkness bends around her small form when she enters the twilight. He wonders where she goes. He wonders why she has taken him into her home, fed him, cared for him, and offered him sweet glances and gentle conversation. Somewhere, deep in the shade of her room, he thinks he knows the answer. He thinks it has to do with the secret shackled in her heart.

Days pass, and he learns many things about her.

She smiles when she feels sad, and she speaks with her eyes. She prefers solitude to words. She prefers dawn to dusk. She is skillful with her hands, stitching torn fabric late at night to make spare money as a seamstress. She works at the restaurant downstairs, and she never speaks about her job. He assumes that she is sometimes attacked by men. He catches glimpses of the dark bruises that mark her wrists and arms when her sleeves fall back as she is cleaning his wounds. He never asks, but he feels a cool rage surge through him every time he sees their damage, feels their heat.

She smells like damp flowers and warm earth, and he comes to appreciate that fragrance, craving it in her absence.

"Your wounds are healing so well," she says brightly before wrapping them with the fresh roll of bandages that she purchased that day. He wonders how much the gauze cost her. What percentage of her meager earnings has she forfeited to keep him safe, healthy, and alive? His heart clenches at this, and, again, he wonders why she has taken this burden upon herself. Is she really just this _kind_? This _gentle_? This _good_?

He grabs her arm as she pulls away. And she turns to him, somewhat taken aback. "Byakuya?"

His breathing becomes shallow and ragged. A strange emotion grips him. Reflexively, he leans forward, prepared to kiss her. He hasn't decided which part of her that he wants to taste right then, and he never gets the chance.

She recoils. Defensively, she raises her shoulder to his lips, and she trembles. A wave of grief and sorrow break across her countenance, contorting the once delicate lines of her features.

He releases her, horrified that he has harmed her in some irrevocable manner. What violence had he perpetrated against her? "Forgive me," he murmurs, lowering his head.

Still shivering, her eyes drift to the floor. "I am sorry," she says, wrapping her arms protectively across her breasts. Without a word, she leaves him.

When she returns, the grief has been washed from her face. She comes bearing a clean kosode for him, and, when she proffers it, she smiles at him sweetly. "For you," she says brightly, "I think you can stand now." She helps him up and gently helps him out of his old robes and into the new ones. "It looks well enough," her voice dips, and she exhales a sigh.

He ties the belt, and he glances down at her. She is tiny and fragile in comparison. "Thank you," he says.

"You should get some fresh air," she chirps. Hesitantly, she rests her hand against his. He can see the tension tug at the muscles in her face. She is not comfortable with proximity. It frightens her, causing a visceral chain reaction across her body.

He strokes the top of her hand with his thumb, tracing her knuckle. Her skin is soft as silk and supple. For some reason, it provokes him, and his face flushes as if he has announced a private secret to the world.

She jumps, edgy, when she feels him move against her, but she does not reject his affection. Instead, she tightens her grip. Her thin fingers sink against his until they are laced.

He wheels her around, grasping the tops of her shoulders. Her arms are small and delicate, and he fears that, if he is not careful, he will crush her bones. "Hisana," he murmurs. An intense feeling spills out from his heart and stains his face, darkening his features and dilating his eyes. His grip on her tightens as he braces against the urge to relent and kiss her.

Her eyes are large, glimmering in the golden light of dusk. His touch sends tremors down her spine. Her body quakes. But, fear does not touch her blue gaze. She waits with baited breath for him.

He lowers his head. His breath, hot and heavy, breezes across her lips. Feeling the last of his restraints snap, he presses his mouth lightly against hers. So lightly, in fact, that he wonders if their lips are even touching. When he moves to deepen the kiss, she lowers her head until his mouth is pressed against her forehead.

Her tremors grow more violent until she is shaking.

He holds her close. His arms envelope her, and he can feel each fiber and sinew in her body tremble. He hopes, no, _prays_, that she cannot detect the urgency of his desire as he holds her tight. Letting his lips brush against the top of her head, against her silky black tresses, he murmurs an apology, "Forgive me, Hisana," he utters for the second time that day.

She shakes her head. "No, I am sorry," she manages, holding back a throaty sob.

He wonders what keeps her constrained and conflicted. What secrets binds her so tightly that she cannot let the kindness of another into her life? He holds her for as long as she wishes to be held, which is a long few minutes.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, she pulls away and turns to the door. "Let's go," she says, stopping short of the threshold. He follows her into the nascent night.

He purchases a gold bracelet for her. She refuses with a tortured expression, and she turns away. He sees that she is cupping her mouth and that she is holding back a cry. He feels sorrow well in the pit of his stomach. She is touched by his generosity, but she cannot accept it for it threatens to pierce her too deeply. It threatens to unravel the world she knows. It sparks a hunger deep in her belly, and she refuses its warmth, its sweet vitality, because she knows when he returns to duty that he will take it with him, and she will be empty once again, except then she will have known the splendor of another's warmth.

He keeps the bracelet, convinced that at some time, at some place, she will accept it.

She leads him to the river bend, where they listen to the drums and acoustics of a small band. She then takes him to her restaurant, where he meets her co-workers, bubbly women, who are instantly enamored with him. Hisana leaves him with these women for a while. Perhaps, she thinks he will fancy one of them, thinks he will hold one of them and kiss her lips. He begins to believe this was her plan as time drifts by in her absence.

He imbibes several cups of sake before she returns. One of the bar wenches sits close to him. Her thigh presses against his, but he doesn't encourage her behavior. His drunken yearnings are not so easily diverted. "Has she taken you as a lover?" the girl purrs into his ear.

He does not answer; instead, he chooses to take another swig of alcohol.

"She does that sometimes," the other co-worker notes aloud.

He perks up at this.

The woman chuckles at his sudden reaction. "You didn't know?"

He blinks. _No, he didn't know_.

"She's a regular Florence Nightingale, that one," the woman pressing her leg against him mumbles against his ear.

"She takes in fallen soldiers and children. She patches 'em up and sets 'em free. It's like in her constitution."

"The men all fall for her. They can't help it, but it's pretty pathetic."

"So strange that she brought ye here, though," the co-worker, who was not actively trying to seduce him, observes loudly, as if the tonics have amplified all her perceptions.

His gaze flits to her.

She takes one look at his questioning visage, and she laughs, plopping down in his lap. "You're really handsome, I get it. No judgment for a sister."

His brain nearly short-circuits as she straddles him. He is slow to push her back, but she is forced backward all the same. The woman pressing her thigh against his shoves her colleague off him. "He's mine," she yelps.

They bicker for a minute. He silences the clamoring when he grabs one of the girls by the arm. "What did you say?"

She blinks, clearing her memory. "Oh, that Hisana never brings her wounded birds around?"

_Yes, that_.

She giggles, leaning down. Her lips are close against the shell of his ear. Her breath teases him as she whispers, "She must be enamored with ye."

"Whaddya tell 'im?" the other girl cries in a drunken slur.

"The truth. Hisana don't bring the other men 'round coz they don't mean nothing to her. She don't mix business with pleasure, if you can call nursing injured folks back to health _pleasure_."

"Why?" Byakuya asks, unable to qualify his question. He meant, _'Why does she do it?'_ The bar wench heard the question as, _'Why doesn't she mix business with pleasure?'_

"Coz she sends 'em packing when they recover. She offers respite, not a boarding house for the _terminally hopeless_. She's got the patience of a saint, but, _shit_, woman's got _limits_."

"Why does she offer the respite?" he asked again.

"She's atoning for somethin' er 'nother."

The girl seated next to him flings her arm up and smacks the other woman hard against the back of the head. "It's her _sister_, ya dipshit! She's always looking for her sister."

"She never said it had nothing to do with a sister."

Byakuya's gaze darts to the door. Hisana, even soaking wet from an ill-timed rainstorm, is a sight for sore eyes. All he can see is her. Immediately, he stands and crosses the floor to meet her. He says nothing despite the flurry of questions stinging at his mouth.

She glances up at him, and she smiles. This time the smile lights her eyes and warms her heart. He knows because he can _feel_ it spark in his chest. "Are you well?" she wonders aloud, her gaze briefly averts to her co-workers.

He follows her eyeline.

"They can be a bit much," she says under her breath.

"Are they your _friends_?" He suspects very much that those two were _no one's friend_, least of all Hisana's.

She quirks a brow. "They have utility, I guess."

That wasn't what he asked, but he let it go.

"Come, I have something to show you."

She has so much to show him. She takes him to a small fair. They stroll through the market, watching the young children frolic and cause mayhem in the town square. The last stop is the river. The two sit and watch the weak current flow in front of them. Growing tired, she leans against his chest as they sit and stare.

He doesn't mind. He rather relishes the opportunity to hold her faint form against him. When her body submits to a weary ultimatum, he scoops her up and carries her back to her small apartment. He lays her down against her futon, and he gently loosens her obi. He is about to loosen the ties of his robes when he feels her fingers catch in the slack fabric.

She tugs at his robes, and he obliges her unspoken request. "Yes?" he bends down.

Her hands glide up his arms, stopping at his triceps. "Lay with me."

He closes his eyes, and he expels a deep breath. He suspects that she has grossly miscalculated the effect she has on him. He hopes that she is not so despicable as to wish to torture him, claw at his propriety. All the same, however, he submits to her request.

Feeling the bed dip under his weight, she rolls on her side and she buries her head against his chest. He holds her. She goes still, motionless. He wonders if she has died there, in his arms. This thought horrifies him, not because death scares him, but because _her_ wellbeing holds weight with him. The thought of losing her suddenly _pains_ him, draws his agony.

Gently, he nudges her chin up, and he stares into her face. She is so serene in the silvery glow of night. She is so beautiful. He kisses her lips, pink and full like rosebuds. She does not tense or shiver against his affections then. She is relaxed, reflexively drawing closer to his warmth.

He will have to leave soon, he realizes as he stares into her face.

His heart sputters at the thought.

When they wake, she pulls him to his feet. Her hands are strong and eager as she helps him up. "I have something to show you," she says vibrantly. She is so exuberant now. He wonders what has caused this change.

She leads him to a lovely spring. It is warm and inviting. The steam just rolls off the water, gusting against their exposed flesh. She demurely begins to disrobe. He turns politely to afford her some privacy before shedding his garments in kind.

Unknotting a tie, he watches her. Her back is turned toward him. Pale milky flesh closely follows the lines of her slim musculature. She is thin, too thin. Unlike the women in the ranks, who have thick layers of well-honed muscle to cover their bones, Hisana does not. He can see the outline of her rib cage and each rib and vertebrae dotting her back.

She is fragile. She could be easily broken. She could shatter like glass.

He enters the pool. The water is hot, leaving a red line demarcating the exposed flesh from the unexposed flesh. He wades into the pool. He nears her, standing close. He wants to touch her. He wants to know what her skin feels like wet. Reaching out, he hesitates, stopping short.

She can feel his heat radiate against her, beating down against her back. Her heart stammers—all painful and cold starts and stops. No rhyme, no rhythm. Every fiber in her body aches, clenching and burning under her pale flesh.

A cry wells in her chest, and her breathing goes ragged. She wants him. She does. But she can't. Her restraints close around her. Her buckles hold fast as she feels his hands lightly touch her shoulders. Her heart cries out in conflicted pain.

He lowers his head. His breath, hot and humid, ghosts across her neck and down her shoulder. She can sense that he is holding back. "May I?" he whispers against the shell of her ear. He asks for permission with words and with his body. He is unaccustomed to asking permission for _anything_, but she has humbled him. She has drawn up boundary lines, and he has come to respect them.

Her lips open, and she gasps a silent breath. Drawing into herself, she crosses her arms in front of her chest, and she holds her arms, bracing against her response. She wants to submit. She wants to feel him against her, imbuing her. She can taste it, and she craves his touch. In the inner sanctum of her thoughts, she replays his many kisses and caresses. She has enjoyed them all. But, she can't succumb. Her stubborn mind will not allow it. She cherishes her solitude, her quiet. She may _want _to experience the pleasures of his flesh against her own, but she _needs _her tranquility. Her soul has become so tattered and frayed over the years that she knows she couldn't continue with an even heavier heart than she already possesses, and she knows that his weight would fell her.

"Yes," she manages in a strangled breath. In an instant, her desire betrays her and her poor trembling body.

Without question or protest, he dips his head close. His lips, soft and tender, brush against the back of her shoulder and trail up the contour of her neck. His kisses are gentle at first, fluttering and fleeting. He seems to relish the sensation of her skin against his, the sweet smell of damp flowers and warm earth, the way her muscles shift and tighten against his lips. He loves it all, and it tempts him, tantalizing his poor mind. His grip on her shoulders tighten, growing unyielding, and she can feel the urgency of his yearning quicken. His lips linger against her skin longer. The pressure of his kisses intensifies.

She wonders how much longer until he can't hold back.

He pulls her close against him. His hands drift across her shoulders and down her arms before stopping at her hips. She knows he wants to explore her body more thoroughly. She can almost taste his wanton longing; she can almost feel the electricity of his nerves spark like cut fuses against her. "Please," he murmurs against her head. Requests for permission morph into pleas.

She pulls in air and holds her breath. Trapped deep in the pit of her lungs, the oxygen swirls, biting against the sensitive lining of her pulmonary cavity. The cold pricks her until she is all gooseflesh. Shivering, all of the familiar locks close around her. Her restraints return, quick and fast they clamp down on her, stilling her heart and numbing her mind.

She can't go any farther. The realization stings her. She feels as if a wild fire has been lit under her skin for it burns hot and flashes across her body.

His grasp on her arms loosens, and she can feel his chest heave in response. "Do I frighten you?" he asks, resting his forehead against her head. He inhales the fragrance of her damp hair. It teases him. Everything about her teases him. He wants her so much, to possess her. Part of him feels that she is his to take—she _belongs_ to him. She is his possession. He struggles against the clasp of that feeling—that sense of entitlement. But it bubbles up constantly, triggering unknown fault lines in his body when he sees her.

She shifts against him. Her head turns in a graceful arch, and she glimpses him in the corner of her eye. She doesn't know how to answer him. A definite feeling seizes her chest and chokes her breath, but she can't quite put the sensation to words. It is strong, overpowering, but it isn't fear.

Her lips part, the weight of her answer sends a tremor through her. She shudders, flustered and reeling from some ineffable desire. "No," she manages, shaking her head.

She turns, lifts her head, and stares deeply into his face. She wants to tell him that she wants him, too. She wants to break free, but her fear of intimacy squelches her words and breaks her heart. No sounds draw from her lips. She bows her head. Her tortured expression intensifies as she stares into the clear water lapping against their exposed bodies.

He is so handsome. Impossibly beautiful. Any woman would surrender to him, but she can't. She knows she couldn't bare the pain of his deprivation when he returns to Seireitei. She suspects that his absence will be hard enough now. After everything. But, she doesn't deserve this pleasure. It would be too great.

He curls a finger under her chin and tilts her head up. Her eyes are so large, so sorrowful. Contrition stains her features, pulling the cords of her facial muscles tight across her skeleton. Without asking, he bends his head down and his lips meets her forehead. Just as before. She lowered her head, escaping his kiss.

He pulls her close, and he holds her tightly pressed against his chest for what feels like ages. He wants to say something. Anything. He doesn't know what. He has thought long and hard about words, and what to say. But, she infatuates him and infuriates him in equal measure.

When he finally breaks his hold, he glances down at her, scrutinizing every line of her face. Gently, he brushes a strand of hair from her eyes back behind her ear.

"Why?" she asks. She feels her heart begin to burst.

He watches her questioningly. He clearly does not understand her query.

"Why do wish to kiss me?"

His gaze softens as he considers an answer. He is silent for a few minutes before speaking. "I _want_ you," he says simply. It was true. It had been true since she skirted away the first time he tried to steal a kiss. He had wanted her then. His desire only intensified, gulfing him, with each day.

She bows her head. "I am ready," she murmurs.

He blinks as if clearing his eyes will make her words easier to comprehend. "Yes?" he says aloud, although it was meant to be thought in silence.

Her gaze flits up to meet his eyes. She cannot find the words, but she consents with a resolute nod. "Please."

The gentleness that kept him chained breaks, and he becomes all jagged edges and animalistic urges. Instinct over insight. Passion over logic. Lust over love. It all crashes down, a violent swirl of emotion and sensations. She submits to him fully, and he worships her body. Piece by piece, they undid each other. All the knots unbind. All the fractured bones are exposed and all the wounds, those that had healed and those that are fresh, tore open. Piece by piece they fell, torn down. Piece by piece, they reassemble the other; they built.

He knew then, at the spring, there would be no other women.

That night, when they are spent against coarse linens, he asks her about the _wounded birds_ she kept. She is perfectly honest. She shares her stories freely. Many of the children under her care perished, too battered, their souls too broken, to be saved. She stayed with them and shared what little comfort she could spare in their final moments. Other children survived. Some, she saw regularly. Others, she never saw again.

The soldiers mostly survived. They were strong enough to live if supported. She rarely saw them afterward, but, sometimes, she receives gifts—clothes, jewelry, food, expensive alcohols. She keeps the food, and she sells the rest.

"Did you love any of them?" Byakuya's face went pallor at the question.

She stares hard into the night. There is something on her mind, something more than just his question. At length, she sighs and smiles. "One," she says. Her voice is soft and mild, but he hears her with stunning resolution.

His heart eases its quick pace, and sweet relief washes over him.

"Have you ever loved anyone, Byakuya?" she asks.

He blinks. _Love_—she means romantic because that is what he had meant. He doesn't believe he ever has. "Once," he says, turning to her.

She smiles; it does not reach her eyes or warm her heart. Her smile conceals something. He doesn't ask what. He has a feeling that he already knows. She will reveal it in time. Or never. He doesn't care. As long as he has her, he doesn't care.

They make love again in the twilight. By the morning, she is gone. The bed is empty. His heart feels heavy as he stares deep into the room. The sunbeams are bright and gold. The light basks the room in yellows and oranges.

He prefers the dusk to the dawn.

Sitting up, he dresses. He can smell her on his robes—damp flowers and warm earth. She can feel her against his skin. Her caresses lightly skate across his scalp, and the sensation of her lips blossoming against his jaw dims his mind and soothes him. He suddenly craves the warmth of the bed. He suddenly wants to smell their scents, intertwined.

He represses these urges, and he continues to dress.

When he is finished tying the last knot, he tucks his sword into his hakama-himo. Gone are the scratchy woolen and hemp fabrics of Inuzuri. In their place, he dons his uniform. Gone is the key that once rested over his heart. He places the golden chain upon her writing desk. He has transformed, morphed into someone else.

He leaves his coin purse in the trunk.

He returns late that night, she is kneeled in front of her desk. Her hands are frantically sewing a patch in a girl's kimono. He watches her for a few minutes, hypnotized by her hands as they weave the needle to and fro.

She pauses and regards him. Briefly, her eyes widen, and he can see that she is happy to see him. She doesn't speak his name. She doesn't make a sound as she stands and throws her arms around his waist. He kisses the top of her head, and he promises that he will never leave her.

He can tell that she does not believe him. She thinks he is being quaint, sparing her feelings. But, he is earnest in his belief.

"You must go," she says, her lips brushing against the black fabric of his kosode. It almost sounds like a question.

His arms tighten around her. "Come with me. I will take care of you. I will provide for us."

She smiles. Again, her expression does not light her eyes or warm her heart. She seems cold now, as if a snowy winter has blown across her soul. "I cannot," she says simply.

He closes his eyes resolutely. "I understand." He does not understand, but he does not press the point. She will come around. Some day. Some time. He is sure.

He leaves her the next morning.

He does not return for a month. He is certain that she has forgotten his vow, but when he enters her small apartment, he does not find another man in his place. She is alone, and she cries when she sees him cross her threshold. Sobs, heavy and deep, wrack her tender body, crack her small chest.

He kisses her. He holds her. He undresses her. He worships her body.

She quiets, pressed fast against him. Her grip is strong and needy. He wonders if she is well. Worry creases his face, and he realizes that he has not worried about someone in decades.

He kisses her on the temple before he leaves the next morning.

When he returns a few weeks later, she is not there. He waits in the darkness, in the desolation. He waits, and waits, and waits. She arrives battered and bloodied. Her eye is swollen, and her lip weeps crimson. He wipes away the blood, and he cleans her wounds.

She does not tell him what has happened.

He does not want to know the extent of her attack. He just wants to know who harmed her. He _has_ to know, is desperate to know. He wants to murder someone. He has never felt this sort of rage before. It is overwhelming, and, when he holds her, he trembles against the intense hatred swelling in his chest.

She never reveals the identity of the men who attacked her. She says she doesn't know. She tells him that it doesn't matter, that they have long fled into the bordering 79th District. He believes that she doesn't know their identities. He doesn't believe that they have fled. He vows to find them and seek revenge. She talks him out of his plan. She comforts him, and he rebukes himself for being weak.

He holds her through the night, and, with aching chest, he leaves the next morning.

He returns to her two weeks later. She is healed but contemplative. Her hands are busy threading a needle when he opens the door. Her head bobs up, and an expression of intense joy spreads across her face. "Byakuya," she says his name so happily. When she crosses the floor, he notices that she is favoring her right leg.

"It is nothing," she assures him, "just a sprained ankle."

Immediately, he drops to his knees to inspect her injured ankle. It is badly bruised and swollen. He picks her up and takes her to the bed. They share stories, their bodies, and their pasts. He never reveals his true origin. He finally asks her why she had taken in the men and children. She answers him honestly and completely.

"I wish to atone," she confesses against the velvety blackness of that moonless night, "I was young and weak when I was sent to Inuzuri with my infant sister. I tried. So hard. I was weary and hungry and thirsty. I could not take care of myself here let alone my sister. So, I scouted a nice elderly couple, and I left her with them." A sob builds in her throat, and she stops short. "I have regretted that decision every day of my life. I have vowed to search for her until my dying breath, and I have vowed to help those who are left, abandoned, in this vicious land as a tribute."

He listens quietly, and he holds her sobbing body when she is done. He leaves at the first light of dawn, not to return for a month.

Winter covers the world in white, even Inuzuri. He comes bearing gifts—warm thick blankets. She has none, he remembers. He reaches her apartment to find it empty. He paces the floor—the memories of her past assault flashes in his head. He hopes with a burning heart that she is well, that she is safe.

She does not come.

His worry beats down on him, forces him to descend the stairs and forces him into the restaurant. Questioningly, he interrogates her co-workers. They know nothing. Hisana had been at work the day before, but she left early to run some errands.

He searches for her—in the market place, at the riverside. She is at the river bank. Her body is prone and broken. Blood tints the snow around her. He tenses as he nears her. To some nameless god, he prays that she has been spared, for his sake. He kneels at her side, and he places a hand against her back. She is warm, but she is fading. Quickly, he scoops her up and takes her to her apartment. He heals her with a spell, and he cleans her wounds.

She is frail, so frail. Her skin is as white as the snow. Her reiatsu barely responds to his. He holds her for the day and night. He holds back tears as he cradles her motionless body. Trying to divert his immense grief, his mind wanders, and he wonders when he had last cried. Centuries ago, when he a mere boy. He felt like a boy then, helpless and impotent. He kisses her head, and whispers his love into her hair.

He does not leave her side until she awakens. He wants to know what happened, why she had been harmed. She says that she doesn't know. She cries and apologizes for worrying him. She tells him that she loves him, and then she blushes.

For a stroke, he stops dead. His anger washes away, and he kisses her. He can't say the words, but he can show her with actions.

He returns a few days later. She is slumbering under a pile of blankets. He sits by her side, and he holds her hand. He leaves in the morning. She never knew he was there.

The next time they meet, he wears a sling. An accident has immobilized his arm. It is only temporary, he explains to her. He tells her that he has a few days off per doctor's orders, and he wants to spend that time with her. She smiles brightly, and she nurses his injuries. He tells her about his childhood, careful to sanitize it until he can no longer bear it.

"Where did you grow up?" she asks, sipping from a piping hot cup of water. She thinks it is a perfectly ordinary question.

He bristles. His gaze flits up from the brim of his cup, and he locks eyes with her. "Seireitei," he answers.

She nods her head. "Where you live now." She doesn't quite comprehend his answer. "Where were you sent, though?"

"I wasn't sent," he answers evenly.

She blinks as if he has just spoken some strange incoherent incantation. "What?"

"Not every soul is recycled."

She cocks her head as if she had never considered the possibility. "Oh."

"Some souls are born in Soul Society."

She inhales a deep breath, and her muscles tighten. "In Seireitei?"

He nods.

"Nobles are born in Soul Society," she murmurs to herself, as if she was finally piecing together the lore. Countless children's tales upon countless myth fill her mind. She never believed them. Until now.

Her eyes dart back to him, "You're a noble."

He captures her gaze. "Yes," he says evenly, keeping his voice as level as possible.

She blanches. The color drains from her face until she looks gray and exhausted. He can tell that she wants to escape. She glances back at the door to the apartment. She shudders, feeling betrayed. Feeling foolish. So damn foolish.

She stifles a cry, and she bows low and deep, extending her arms out in front of her. "Forgive me," she says, holding the pose until she feels the warmth of his hand against her back.

"Please, Hisana," he pleads, helping her up.

"What do I call you?" she asks, tears sting fresh in her eyes.

"Byakuya," he says, running a gentle touch across her scalp.

"Lord or Sir?"

He lowers his gaze to the floor. "I am a Lord."

Her breath hitches in her throat, strangling her. Immediately, she stands then, realizing that he is still sitting, she drops to her knees. He watches vaguely amused at the sudden burst of kinetic energy his title has sent through her.

She shakes her head, eyes train on the door. He knows she wants to burst through door, but she stops herself. "I am so sorry, Lord," she ends abruptly with the title, not even knowing his surname.

"Kuchiki."

Her eyes widen and her lips part. "You are Lord _Kuchiki_?" Ordinarily, he doesn't mind the sound of his name in his ears, but from her lips it sounds like a ringing indictment of his character. Perhaps it is.

He stares into his cup of hot water. His heart sinks as he detects her horror. "Yes." When he glances up, expecting to find her shocked face, he finds nothing. She has gone. The door clacking closed confirms his suspicions.

He waits for her. She returns late. A cough is heavy on her lips, and she wobbles, clearly inebriated. He kisses her all the same, tastes the sweetness of the liquor on her breath, and he takes her to bed. He feels a distance between them that wasn't there before, and it takes several long months to bridge it.

She vows to forget the day he told her that he was a Lord of one the most powerful houses in Soul Society. He can see that it weighs on her, however. He knows that it only adds to her guilt, to her shame.

But, he can't pretend he is a peasant. He isn't. And, she has a right to know the truth. She will have to know the truth, eventually.

"Come with me to my home," he says, raking her hair back behind her neck. "Come live with me."

She dips her head down, and her gaze trails to the side. "No, Lord Byakuya."

He still hasn't convinced her to drop the title from his name, but, at least, she isn't moaning his titled surname into the night anymore. _That_ had been jarring. Although, he assumes that was her intention.

He tilts her head back. She is beautiful, all white skin and bright blue eyes. He kisses her forehead. "I will make a garden just for you," he tempts her. "A garden for you and your sister."

She furrows her brow at his strange offer. "My sister and I?"

He stares at her as if it was the most natural idea in the whole world. "Yes. She is family."

Hisana's face flushes a bright scarlet. "F-fa-family?"

He nods. "You are my family. She is your family. Therefore, she is part of my family."

Hisana trembles at the sweetness of his logic. "I am not part of your family."

Byakuya shut his eyes. "Not formally. But, you feel like family."

Her trembling continues. "You feel like family," she retorts.

"We are family." He clasps her hand in his.

She begins to chew on her bottom lip as she stares pensively into the middle distance. Again, he has lost her in thought.

"I could make it formal," he murmurs, eyes glued to her.

Her shivering becomes more violent.

Swiftly, he shrugs off his haori and wraps it around her shoulders. "I would do it for you." He wants to do it _for him_, but he knows that she is the one who needs convincing.

She does not answer him.

She refuses to consider the question for a long time.

Not until the following winter does he even broach the subject with her. The family is unhappy with him. Nothing he does is quite right, is quite by the books. He bends the rules, choosing the law's spirit over its letter. His grandfather constantly rebukes him for this. His father and mother had been less censorious about his brashness, but Ginrei can no longer abide it in the House's future heir.

Pressured, he refuses to marry the women that come with the Kuchiki Family seal of approval. He loves only one woman, and, if she will not be his wife, then he will not take a wife. He does not tell his family these thoughts. They know nothing about Hisana or Rukongai. No one could dare intrude on what they do not know exists. Some of his servants _suspect_ that he has dalliances with some woman, somewhere. Speculation centers on a noblewoman, who he had never met or spoken to. This, at least, keeps his family satisfied, thinking he is sneaking out to have a raucous affair with one of _their kind_.

Entering Hisana's apartment that cold winter night, he is alone. Muted horror surges up from his stomach as he remembers the winter prior. This fear, however, is unfounded. She peels back the door to her apartment, a few moments later. "Lord Byakuya," she greets him gently.

He kisses her, madly, passionately. He hopes that his kiss will convince her to accept his proposal. It does not. She very politely, but very firmly tells him that she cannot leave her home. She will not leave her home.

He listens silently, and he nods when it is appropriate to nod. He secretly believes that she is afraid of entering Seireitei. She fears the ripples their union would send throughout that strange patrician land. She doesn't like change, and she hates adversity more.

When he returns a few months later, everything is changed. Inuzuri seems off. The marketplace is empty. The crowds are nowhere to be found. He slowly threads his way to her apartment. It is no longer there. Ash and rubble mark the edifice's demise. A fire? He runs a finger through the soot. Yes, a fire ravished the whole block.

Fear flows through him. Swiftly, he bounds across the street, where he questions the vendors. "A fire," they all confirm.

_Everyone at the bar perished._

_They found two women among the remains._

_No one has seen Hisana in ages._

He searches the city before scouring the riverside. He knew he should have begun at the riverside for that is where she is. Huddled over herself, she watches the icy slush flow downstream. She looks desolate. Her stare is as icy as the winter itself.

He removes his haori, and he drapes it over her shoulders. "We are leaving," he says commandingly.

She looks up at him. She has to clear her eyes, not quite believing he is standing there. "Where are we going?"

"_You_ are coming with_ me_." He pulls her to her feet. "_You_ will be _my_ _wife_," he says resolutely.

Her lips part, and her tongue readies a protest.

"I will not hear any more of it," he cuts her off. "I am the heir apparent to one of the Four Noble Families. You will no longer deny me this right."

Her eyes widen at this sudden display. His brazen entitlement, however, comes as no surprise to her. It always lingers just below his façade, simmering. He feels he has a right to her because of who he is, because of where she is from. He would have her, and, in the end, he always emerges victorious.

He offers his hand to her, and she reluctantly accepts. An obliging nod. There was nothing left in Inuzuri now that her home and means of survival had turned to ash. She could search for her sister while living in any district.

She is a fractured woman when he marries her. A large and important piece of her heart, her soul, her thoughts, and her warmth wander the harsh streets of Inuzuri. She searches in vain for this missing piece. Every day, she travels to Inuzuri to search for her sister, and every night she returns home, set deep in the bucolic Kuchiki estate, where a similarly large piece of her heart resides.


End file.
